No island summer is complete without at least one trip up to Pt. Disney, the top of our rock. Time after time I walk down that same dirt road and along the curves of that same well-worn footpath, and time after time, coming 'round that final bend, the view never fails to catch me off guard. You can't help but get a little still, a little stupefied. There's just so damn much of it.
Bumping back down the mountain, blasting the tape deck and eating handfuls of sun-melted trail mix like no tomorrow, we stopped by the airstrip on the way home and came across an old airplane waiting patiently for her owner.
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